A Different Kind of Show
by generalsleepy
Summary: Erik likes to know everything that's going on around the opera house. It's only rarely that he finds something that truly surprises him. But, there's a first time for everything. Daroga/Raoul.


It was advantageous for Erik to keep abreast of all happenings at the Palais Garnier. Dropping trivia into his notes to the managers projected a useful aura of omniscience, and he wanted to be as aware as possible of anything he might need to protest to them: changes to the program or seating plans or any attempt to work against him.

In addition, it was diverting to keep up with the latest high-society gossip.

He crept through the narrow wood-lined tunnel which ran behind and just below the row of theater boxes to the left of the stage. Even on his hands and knees, he was practiced enough to move without making a noise. he'd shed his coat and mask for unobstructed movement and vision. He didn't intend to encounter anyone, and if he did, it would only work in his favor to frighten them.

The performance was still hours away, and only the highest-paying patrons were beginning to filter in. He first determined that Box 5 was empty, as ordered. He found the same of Boxes 4 and 2. He pulled back the perfectly hidden slat at the base of the wall in Box 3 to see the dowager Roland snoring in her chair. Erik smirked; he wondered why the woman even paid for tickets to the opera when she slept through each show.

As he approached Box 1, he could hear the slightest noises from inside. The box was reserved for M. and Mme. DuBois, the Comtess Gerard, and, on occasion, his own Daroga.

Erik hadn't spoken with the Persian for more than a week. He didn't know whether he was planning to attend that night's production of __La Clemenza di Tito__. (Though, with Christine in the role of Annio, what madman would miss it?). It would be welcome to speak with the Daroga again; he was, after all, Erik's only conversational partner. And though, of course, he didn't __miss__ him, he would like to have the chance to speak with the man.

He pressed his ear to the trapdoor and listened for a moment. He could hear two muffled voices from inside. One was higher than the other, but both were male. They were too soft for him to determine if he recognized them.

He had enough practice and dexterity not to make a sound as he slid back the trapdoor.

Erik's mouth fell open as he took in the tableau before him. One man sat in a chair, while another straddled him. They were far enough back that they wouldn't have been visible from the neighboring boxes or the stage. The one sitting had his face buried in the neck of the man on top, so that all was visible was a headful of black curls, while the other man's head was thrown back, lips parted and eyes shut.

He was young, 18 or 19—21 at the most. His disheveled hair was a light blond and his pale skin was flushed. The delicate cheekbones, clear complexion, and pink lips were girlish, with the only obvious signs of masculinity on the youthful face a little blond mustache.

Erik thought that he remembered the face. He took a second to think before it clicked: Raoul, the little Vicomte de Chagny, brother of the Comte. The sailor lad only recently returned to Paris. He'd observed with concern when he and Christine had greeted each other warmly, with embraces and kisses on the cheek. Christine assured him that the boy was like a brother to her, and their behavior over the following weeks seemed to bear that out. On the promise that she wouldn't allow him to distract her from her craft, he allowed them their friendship.

Clearly he needn't have been worried: the boy's interests lay decidedly elsewhere.

As for the other man—taller and broader, seemingly much older than his inamorato—Erik thought that he recognized the loose, nearly black curls. Then, he noticed the strong hand gripping de Chagny's waist, the skin a dark, rich brown.

Erik's stomach lurched. He was still trying to convince himself that he was jumping to conclusions when the man pulled away, and Erik couldn't deny that that it was the Daroga he was seeing making love to a boy in an opera box.

Breathing heavily, face flushed, he ran a hand through the boy's hair. "Lord, you're beautiful," he murmured.

Raoul only let out a breathy moan before kissing the Daroga on the mouth. The Daroga buried his fingers in the silky-looking blond hair and tugged lightly.

Erik continued to stare, dumbfounded. In all the time they'd known each other, the Daroga had never shown any... inclinations, let alone this. Erik was traveled enough not to be puritanical, and in any case, murderers were hardly in the position to be passing down moral judgment on the personal lives of others. Nevertheless, he hadn't been expecting this.

The Daroga rolled his hips upward, grinding against the man in his lap. The Vicomte broke away from the kiss to let out a high pitched whine. The Daroga put a hand over his mouth. "Hush, dear. You need to keep your voice down. Or do I have to put that pretty tie in your mouth?"

Somehow, Erik's mouth fell further open and his eyes got wider.

Raoul groaned and nodded. The Daroga lowered his hand and returned to kissing his throat. His long, dexterous fingers set to work on the boy's tie and buttons. Raoul whispered the Daroga's name, his personal name that the Daroga had first told Erik in Mazandaran, the name that hardly anyone in Paris knew. The two rolled their hips in unison, pressing against each other. The Daroga kissed the young man as they both gasped and groaned. He slipped a hand under the Vicomte's shirt.

It suddenly struck Erik that at this point he was just being a voyeur. He slid the board back into place, managing to stop himself from slamming it. He had no more interest in scoping out the opera house. He scuttled down the crawlspace and then the hidden ladder that led to his home. As the shock receded, he reminded himself that he shouldn't care about the Daroga's personal life. He simply hadn't ever associated sex with his… well, he supposed "friend" was the most applicable term.

Part of him wanted to forget what he had seen and never speak of it again. Another, much more weasley part, knew this would be satisfying to pull out when the Daroga chided him for his love for Christine—"bothering a little girl," he had said. By that logic, the Daroga was doing more than bothering a little boy.

Oh, to see the embarrassment spreading over his oh-so-dignified face. But, then, the Daroga could fairly counter with the question of why Erik had been watching him in a personal moment that should be of no interest to the high-minded "opera ghost."

The question would require more consideration. For now, he was going to go back home, work at his opera, and try not to think about what might be happening up above.


End file.
